Metamorphosis

Our "President" says that the reason he has decided not to go to London is not because he is so universally disliked outside of his own country, but rather this: "Reason I canceled my trip to London is that I am not a big fan of the Obama Administration having sold perhaps the best located and finest embassy in London for 'peanuts,' only to build a new one in an off location for 1.2 billion dollars. Bad deal. Wanted me to cut ribbon-NO!" Never mind that the deal to move the embassy was made months before Barack Obama took office. Never mind that there are certain duties that heads of state attend and put themselves through in order to preserve a modicum of what we used to call decorum. Like those funerals for deceased heads of other nations. So somber and depressing, with very little time for golf.
Our "President" has been defending his "tough talk" about other countries while discussing immigration policy. Senator Dianne Feinstein has suggested that if our "President" can't stop being racist, that he has to go. I suggested at the time that if a seventy-one year old man is capable of spouting such bile that the likelihood of his turning over a new leaf in the last chapter of his life would be something even Charles Dickens wouldn't write.
And here is the kicker: There are still millions of Americans who proudly stand behind this man. Back him up. They don't even bother making excuses for him because he represents their own thoughts and ideals. Never mind the hate and fear, since that is fuel for the fire that burns within them. What seems forever ago, Michelle Obama suggested that whenever "they go low, we go high." In this game of ideological limbo, we seem to plumb new depths each day with our current "President." As long as there are people who are willing to say, "Yeah, but he's got a point," then we will be lost in a vortex of lower than low expectations.
When will the bright light of reality fall on the man behind the curtain? It already has, while his supporters continue to blame the light. It's not the light that is to blame, it's the corpulent, wispy-haired cockroach that doesn't even bother scurrying to the baseboards when it shines on him. He just looks back over his shoulder and growls something about "Where's the Diet Coke?" Again, this is not a story by Franz Kafka. This was a cockroach when he was elected and he will be a cockroach when he leaves office. My apologies to our former First Lady for my inability to keep going high. But I'm still miles above that cockroach.